My Kids Are Supposed To Live Till

Here We Go Again. Always A Few Drinks, But Sometimes Even Sober, We Play The Unhappiness Game; Endlessly Round And Round. Ding Dong. Tighter And Tighter. On And On. Push Me Pull You. Come Here And I'll Tell You How Much I Hate You. Hang On A Minute While I Leave You. All The While We Know We Are Missing The Point, Whatever The Point Used To Be.

I Am Interested In Silences

Write Whatever Way You Like. Fiction Is Made Of Words On A Page; Reality Is Made Of Something Else. It Doesn't Matter How "real" Your Story Is, Or How "made Up": What Matters Is Its Necessity.

Resistless Change, When Powerless To Improve, Can Only Mar.

There Is Something Wonderful About A Death, How Everything Shuts Down, And All The Ways You Thought You Were Vital Are Not Even Vaguely Important. Your Husband Can Feed The Kids, He Can Work The New Oven, He Can Find The Sausages In The Fridge, After All. And His Important Meeting Was Not Important, Not In The Slightest.